


The Black Adder

by coffeeinlondon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, BAMF Harry, Castration, Harry Gets Revenge, Harry is basically the Kaz Brekker of London, Harry is brought up by Muggles, Harry kicks some ass, I hope, M/M, Mentions of past abuse, Sirius is shook, Sorry Not Sorry, Voldemort is lowkey impressed, he even has a cane, mentions of past trauma, not so accidental accidental magic, though not overly explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 10:11:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13679598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeinlondon/pseuds/coffeeinlondon
Summary: The Boy-Who-Lived disappeared on the night of his parent’s murder. A decade later, the Dark Lord returns and seeks vengeance, quickly gaining control of Wizarding Britain. Stronger and more power than ever, Voldemort reigns with a swift and efficient hand.Then, a clever tracking spell and a drop of blood grants the Dark Lord and his closest followers a look into the life of the wayward prophesised saviour, but what meets them isn’t anything like they expected. Ruling the streets of Muggle London, the-lost-saviour goes under a new name, exacting punishments and revenge with a cruel hand and cold eyes.





	The Black Adder

**Author's Note:**

> *Disclaimer: I do not get any profit from this work nor do I won anything within the Harry Potter franchise with the exception of my Sirius Black wand and a Ravenclaw scarf, both of which I got at Universals Studios*
> 
> Honestly, I do not know if I'll continue this or let it stay a one-shot, this is unfortunately as far as my muse would take me with this one..
> 
> Critique is welcome: if you have any advice for what I should keep/improve/scrap please kindly let me know :)  
> Happy reading, Lulu xx

The Dark Side’s victory had been inevitable. After decades of war and battle, of dark cloaks, poisonous whispers, and deadly plotting, the sweet taste of triumph was finally theirs to sample and saviour in abundance. The Dark Lord had risen again, despite the denial of his enemies and the rare doubts of his allies, he had risen more powerful and absolute than ever before, leading the Dark Side to a swift, certain, and, for the most part, smooth victory.

The Ministry had fallen under the Dark Lord’s control within a year of his resurrection, now merely a puppet regime playing into his hands, both of which had stayed firmly hidden in the shadows. The Late Hogwarts Headmaster had fallen after one and a half, an old man dying of dragon pox, embracing the afterlife peacefully whilst in his sleep, to become neither a martyr nor an idol for anyone but his closest friends, or at least the few of them who dared to oppose the new status quo. However, both the populace of Wizarding Britain and the Ministry believed they were acting on their own accord, oblivious to the sinister hand pulling their strings, and having no notions at all about the existence of the growing, festering darkness seeping its way into every pore and every crack of their guileless society, much less the one enemy everyone had thought to be vanquished for good. Lord Voldemort was moving pieces on the playing board, promoting and discarding politicians, whispering in people’s ears, and slowly spreading his vast influence until that time in which he could safely emerge from the shadows, not as a feared adversary, but as their beloved saviour.

The irony of this did not elude him, as there was only one hindrance preventing him from feeling absolutely certain in his dominance, a minor detail refusing to let its presence stay unknown in the Dark Lord’s mind; the Potter boy. It was more symbolic than anything, but the Dark Lord wanted him dead.

He had spent almost 10 years as a wraith, possessing the bodies and minds of reptiles and animals, before he was resurrected by his most devoted followers. And though he would never believe that a child barely out of infancy was the reason behind that fateful rebounded curse, the thought that the brat was alive somewhere, living his life, bothered the Dark Lord like fleas on a crup.

Thus, it was a source of great satisfaction when one of his followers stepped into the main strategy chamber of the restored Gaunt Manor with the words not needing any explanation;

“We have located him, my Lord.”

Rabastan Lestrange strode confidently into the chamber, looking pleased and just a bit smug, followed by his more subdued older brother, Rodolphus, his sister-in-law, Bellatrix, who was almost bouncing on her feet in glee, and Sirius Black, who’s pale features looked even more haunted and translucent than normal, a grim line adorning his lips.

Their Lord looked up from his work after quilling down one last word, while Lucius Malfoy and Regulus Black quickly following suit from their place beside their Lord, all three now observing the group making their way into the chamber.

“We have the location of Harry Potter, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed, his gaze intent and unreadable but for a small glint in his eyes which might have been excitement, before slowly inclining his head for the man to elaborate. The other wizards and witch in the room felt the temperature decrease by a fraction, as if it, too, was holding its breath.

Rodolphus took over the narrative then; “He seems to be closer than we expected, my Lord. Our tracking rituals specifies the boy’s current location of being in England. East London, to be precise.”

He pulled out a rich parchment, spreading it out on the oval table occupying the middle of the room to show a map of Muggle London, a drop of darkened blood slowly moving down one of the inked streets, leaving behind a trail of crimson, signifying the whereabouts of Harry James Potter.

“It doesn’t show a name,” was Malfoy’s icy, indifferent comment upon inspecting the map, mouth turned down in a mocking sneer.

“We used a drop of Potter blood as well as a drop of my own, as I made him my blood heir on his naming ceremony. That is definitely him,” Sirius replied defiantly, not letting his eyes stray from the small speck of blood traversing cream parchment.

“He could have changed his name, which would explain why most other tracking charms and rituals never properly worked,” Regulus mused, “even though, based on our assessment, it is almost certain the boy has no knowledge of magic, with enough conviction and intent, he could change his name without the proper, magical procedures.”

That had been another irritant, souring the Dark Lord’s thoughts. The Potter boy hadn’t attended Hogwarts, and had indeed not even been seen by a single soul since the night he himself was supposedly vanquished. After some subtle inquiries it had been discovered that Harry Potter had indeed gotten a letter from Hogwarts, which disproved the theories about the boy either being dead or born a squib.

The fact that the boy prophesised to be his equal, the one believed by the general populace to have vanquished a Dark Lord at the tender age of one, was now living in Muggle London, completely unawares of his legacy and powers, irked the Dark Lord more than he cared to admit.

“Well done, you’ve all pleased me,” Voldemort said to the four having been in charge of finding his supposed arch-nemesis, observing how his praise made them preen and glow, either bluntly like Bella or quietly like Sirius.

“He is most likely referring to himself by another name, as Regulus has suggested,” he began, taking in the faces of his most trusted followers, “why don’t we have a look, hm?”

The statement garnered all the responses the Dark Lord had been waiting for; excitement, anticipation, hunger, pride, and just a hint of trepidation in the eyes of the boy’s godfather.

Sirius Black had converted to his cause after his undeserved stay in Azkaban had been interrupted by the Dark Lord breaking out his followers, and subsequently the other prisoners as well. Voldemort had given him a choice after the man had been brought to Carrow Castle with the other escapees; either to join the Dark Lord’s cause, or to give up his Lordship and all his connections to the House of Black to his younger brother and swear never to lift his wand against the Dark Lord or his followers and allies ever again. It had been a merciful offer, giving him the chance to walk away and live out his days in some far-off country, but Sirius had chosen otherwise, disillusioned with the Light Side and filled with anger, hatred, and no small amount of the infamous Black insanity. And, throughout the years, the Black heir had proven his loyalty and skills, rising up in the ranks to join his brother in the Inner Circle in short time. It was not difficult to realise that the task of locating the Potter boy had been another test of the man’s loyalties, one which would now bear fruits based on the man’s reactions during the next couple of hours.

“Go, my Lord? You want to go after the boy right now?” Bellatrix asked eagerly, her eyes glinting with a dazed sheen and her voice soft and reverent.

“There is no time like the present, is there not?” Their Lord asked with slight amusement, bringing forth his wand with pale, slender fingers.

“First, we will only observe him, under disillusionment, as I imagine he will be among people. With more privacy, we can proceed with what should be done.”

His tone was cold, with an unquestionable finality, and his followers crowded around the table with an anticipating breath.

Lord Voldemort laid his left hand on Rabastan’s shoulder, the rest following by taking hold of each other as well, forming a semi-circle with the Dark Lord at one end. Then, Lord Voldemort traced his wand over the spelled parchment, chanting in an ancient and long forgotten tongue as the drop of red blood slowly started to swirl, the shapes of roads and houses and buildings becoming more distinct, gaining colour and form. And, with a feeling not much unlike diving into a pensive, the Dark Lord and six of his most trusted soundlessly appeared in the middle of a Muggle street in the heart of East London, completely invisible to the busy forms mindlessly flitting around.

“Oh, my Lord. Could we please –”

“We are not physically here, Bella. Spells would not work, I’m afraid.”

Bellatrix made a face between a scowl and a pout, as she surveyed the Muggles around her with not a small amount of disdain. The others held varying expressions of disgust, discomfort, and disinterest as they all surveyed the Muggle street, busy with activity as people made their way through their afternoon shopping or timely strolls in the late summer evening.

The Dark Lord scanned the crowd, trying to pin down the face of the irritant that would hopefully soon be extinguished.

“There–, my Lord,” Regulus said, pointing in the direction of a Muggle restaurant.

As the Dark Lord’s eyes shifted focus, their surroundings seemed to shift, like the whole world was spinning to make sure they would not have to move, and suddenly they found themselves just a few feet away from someone who was, undoubtedly, Harry Potter.

The boy was easily recognisable, looking, at first glance, almost exactly like his father, proven by Sirius Black taking an involuntary gasp at the sight of him. However, as Lord Voldemort observed him, he saw how it was mostly just the black, unruly mass of hair, slightly longer than his father’s, giving off this impression, as the rest was uniquely different.

Potter was small for his age, perhaps almost a head shorter than Lucius’ son who would have been his year-mate, and quite thin as well. His lithe frame, however, did not hide the cords of lean muscle flexing underneath his shirt and jacket, and when the boy turned in their direction, utterly unaware of their presence much like everyone around them, they were met with a defined jaw, sharp cheekbones, pale skin, and a pair of stunningly green eyes keenly scanning their surroundings with an expression of amused boredom. The boy was wearing what they presumed were the norm of Muggle clothing, a pair of dark trousers, a red sweater, and a black coat reaching his knees, however, other small features also captured their attention, such as the pair of dark leather gloves the boy was wearing, and the glimpse of something silver resting inside his coat.

As the Dark Wizards watched on, they saw the boy standing in the shadows of the ornamental plants giving those eating outside the restaurant a sense of privacy and seclusion, sharp, green eyes methodically scanning the clientele. His purpose for this was not immediately made clear until the boy suddenly seemed to find what he was looking for, and with a shrewd glint of emerald, the boy nimbly left the shadows to blend in with the crowd walking just past the white-clad tables, his disguised audience staying by his side like fixed points.

When Potter passed a table occupied by an older couple, both oozing excessive wealth and unhealthy self-importance, he seemed to trip on thin air as he stumbled into their table, head kept down in supplication and a string of apologies countering the round of ever so politely-worded expletives and outrage by the surprised pair. Then, quickly regaining his balance, the boy nimbly righted himself while turning away, hands in his coat pockets and head still on level with his shoulders. The ordeal hadn’t taken more than 30 seconds.

Bellatrix scoffed and made a petty remark, which promptly died halfway through as Potter’s hands remerged from his pockets after the boy rounded a corner, this time with a leather wallet, a gold zippo lighter, a pack of cigarettes and the diamond encrusted watch the Dark Lord had seen adorning the old man’s wrist just a minute ago.

As the boy passed a bin, he nimbly flicked the cigarette pack and the leather wallet into it, without slowing down or taking his focus off of the handful of pound notes and pocket change he was now sorting through. After a prolonged moment of shocked silence by the boy’s audience, Bellatrix started cackling, clapping her hands and dancing around the still moving boy.

“A pick-pocket…” Sirius murmured lowly in a conflicted tone, before his brother cut in sharply,

“It’s not like they didn’t deserve it. All of them, come to think, they’re only Muggles after all.”

“Yes, we cannot expect any better,” Lucius’ biting comment was more aimed at the elder Black than at the boy or for any need to assert his views, and true enough, Sirius was about to react accordingly until their Lord sent them a look, quelling the argument before it could start.

They continued to watch as Potter gracefully moved down the street, deftly navigating the mass of people and occasionally nicking a wallet or piece of jewellery, as if the sleights-of-hand required no effort at all. By the time they got to a less populated area, he had acquired quite the collection of wealth, sometimes having stopped in a side-alley or corner to empty the wallets of cash and leaving them empty in the gutter.

“He could be using magic, even subconsciously, to make this easer and not get caught,” Regulus speculated, “or even to store what he’s pickpockets without it being noticeable.”

“An undetectable-extension charm through accidental magic, or indeed even wandlessly, would be quite the feat,” Rodolphus argued sceptically, as Potter stopped in front of an unassuming building in a nearly deserted street.

The boy climbed the steps and rung the doorbell with a familiarity denoting he had done it plenty of times before, and the Dark Lord wondered if this was where the previously elusive boy-who-lived now spent his days.

A young woman opened the door, perhaps a few years older than the Potter boy, with long, dark hair spilling down to her hips and a striking, dark complexion.

“T’es en retard, Adrien.” _(“You’re late, Adrien.”)_

“Je n’ai jamais de retard, Camille, les autres sont en avance.” _(“I am never late, Camille, everyone else is simply early”)_

The lilting sound of playful, fluent French rolled of Potter’s tongue with only a slight accent and the girl’s grin widened as she let Potter into the tidy hall, where he discarded his shoes on a rack already housing about a dozen.

“Grey veut te parler” _(“Grey wants to speak with you”)_

“Est-ce important?” _(“Is it important?”)_

“Ça ne l’est pas toujours?” _(“Isn’t it always?”)_

Potter’s nose wrinkled as the pair stepped further into the house, the small crowd of Dark Wizards carefully scrutinising their surroundings. It was clean enough, tidy and well-kept even though the furniture was mostly worn and outdated, the wooden floor full of marks and dents.

Sirius compared it to Grimmauld Place and found that this place probably trumped it just on the premise that it wasn’t dark, malevolent and full of severed house-elf heads mounted along the staircase.

Potter led them up to the first floor, quietly conversing with the dark haired Muggle in rapid French. The first landing revealed a set of opened, double-doors leading into a parlour-like room filled with couches and futons. On the couches thee boys were rowdily waving around some sort of black, plastic gadgets connected to another black, plastic box standing below a board displaying a glowing, moving picture of two cars racing in a city. For Potter and the Muggles, this would not need an explanation, but for the six wizards and one witch the scene was highly puzzling.

“Adrien, Cammie! Good to see ya – Oi mate, watch it!” One of the younger boys, with strawberry blond hair and a pinched face, shouted at their entrance, whacking the boy holding the other black gadget in the arm when one of the cars on the screen crashed into a pond.

“Don’t be a sore loser, D,” the other japed, trying to fend of the incoming assault.

“Ça t’arrive de la fermer?” (Do you ever shut up?), the girl muttered under her breath before quietly retreating from the room with only a glance in Potter’s direction long enough to catch his bored gaze and giving him a small nod.

“Ey runts, time to leave us adults alone now, ‘aight?” The oldest of the three in the room said, giving the quarrelling boys a hard look.

“Adder’s not older than me though, ‘swear it!” One of them exclaimed, even as they hastened off the couch and out of the room as soon as the order was out, hasting past Potter who had been leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“Something you wanted to talk about, Grey?”

“Yeah, and it’s dead important,” Grey gestured towards the door, and Potter slowly unfolded his arms to close it before moving further into the room, his invisible company following along.

“Y’know that one guy you had us memorising the face of? Blond, obnoxious chav with enough dough to buy half the crown jewels?”

Because the Dark Lord had already been watching closely, he saw how Potter’s expression changed minutely before he reigned in his emotions and presented the same, indifferent mask he had had since entering the house.

“He’s been spotted? Where?” His tone was dark and eager, almost hungry.

His companion smirked darkly and leant forward in his seat, “Better, mate. He’s here, down under.”

Potter’s already intense reaction doubled, and they watched as his body grew taunt as a bowstring before he consciously relaxed again, jaw clenching and unclenching audibly.

“Had a bloody hard time getting him here, but we were out with the big guys, y’know, and suddenly this tosser shows up outa nowhere, on the piss and shouting up a storm. So, it wasn’t any work convincing Vince and them to gimme a hand with ‘im straight as I told ‘em ‘twas on your orders.”

Potter nodded absently, eyes distant as he seemed to make a decision.

“Everything’s as I left it down there?”

“Sure is, had ta cuff him to a chair but last I checked he was out like light.”

“Great. Thanks Grey, I won’t forget this. Make sure no one sticks their nose down there, under any circumstance, okay? I don’t care if the bloody house catches on fire, anyone found down there is likely to stay there, indefinitely, got it?”

“Got it boss, I’m on it.”

“Oh, and, here’s today’s catch,” with that, Potter flicked the stolen good onto the table, bracelets, rings, watches, and coins clinking merrily, before he turned around and left the room.

The Dark Lord and his followers were puzzled. The French, the house, the name, and even the pickpocketing could be explained away quite logically, but the man supposedly led down to the cellar, and the other boy referring to Potter as ‘boss’ weren’t as straight forward.

“I expect we’ll get a show,” Rabastan lightly commented as Potter stopped in front of a non-descriptive door on the ground floor, using the key hanging on a peg beside it to get it opened.

Before opening the door, however, Potter shrugged off his coat and revealed what had been concealed beneath; a delicate but sturdy black cane, the end adorned with a silver handle shaped like the skull of a crow. The elegant stick lay securely in the boy’s hand, and it was obvious it was a familiar weight in his hands, as he adjusted it so that his hand engulfed the crow skull, opening the basement door after leaving the coat hanging over a nearby chair.

Directly inside was a set of stairs leading down into darkness, and as Potter stepped down the first two, they were abruptly plunged into it as he closed the door behind him. Without the aid of vision, the other senses gradually heightened, and they heard faint shuffling coming from below. Potter seemed to take a moment to prepare himself again before his steps sounded on the rickety stairs. They were still in total darkness, but the boy seemingly knew his way as he stepped off the stairs a moment later and began walking in a specific direction, taking a turn before continuing on.

The shuffling intensified in volume and magnitude, before a cracked voice shouted out with poorly hidden fear, “Who’s there? I demand you show yourself!”

Potter didn’t seem to heed the words as he continued walking at a leisurely pace towards the voice, and the Dark Lord felt his intrigue involuntarily rise along with a simmer of anticipation. He could no longer make out his followers, or any other shapes in the constant darkness, and without the aid of spells or magic, there wasn’t much he could do.

“It’s you blasted Karamazov’s, isn’t it! Let me tell you, you’re making a grave mistake! I know people! I’m powerful, you don’t want to mess with me!” The man continued to plead into the blackness.

“Just release me right now and we can negotiate that fucking deal, all right? I was only planning to stall for couple of days anyway, I have the drafts all laid out neatly in my office, you have my word on it!” The voice grew more and more agitated when it didn’t get any response, and Potter had taken to walk in a wide circle around the man, heels clicking eerily on the stone floor.

“Ha ha! Come on, guys, I’m a good sport! No bad feelings, I swear! I mean, I knew it was you, didn’t I?”

Potter had come full circle by the time the last line was uttered, where his steps finally faltered, leaving a foreboding stillness in its wake.

Then, to the complete awe and surprise of everyone in the room, physically present or not, a small green flame flickered to life in the cradle of Potter’s hands, palms up and cupped together in front of his chest so that the unearthly green flames cast living shadows across his face and shoulders, reflecting in his eyes to make them shine eerily reminiscent of a certain, lethal curse, alive both due to the flaming effects and the deep emotions swirling in their depths. The crow cane hung securely at the boy’s elbow, the silvery head reflecting the green flames as well.

“Not quite, Christopher.”

Potter’s voice was cold, completely devoid of all emotion and almost foreign compared to the playful French or posh British he had spoken with just moments earlier. The Dark Lord paused, eyes sharpening in the small light of the magical fire gently floating in the hands of the child. His followers looked equally as shocked, only Rodolphus and Regulus having composed themselves after their initial reaction.

“Great Merlin,” Sirius whispered hoarsely.

The man tied to the chair laughed, a loud, choppy sound seemingly aimed at rattling the apathetic child.

“Ah, what a surprise. Really, I never would have guessed, of all people –. Adrien Black.” His tone dripped with condescension and disdain, now clearly more confident than he was before an unnamed assailant, even as they took in his naked, shivering form, bound by wrists and ankles to the feet and hands of an uncomfortable metal chair.

Sirius gasped silently at the name, and Bellatrix grew deadly still, no longer flitting around the room in restlessness. The Dark Lord grew even more puzzled as he observed the child, his quick mind working over every detailed reaction of both the child and his victim.

“Oh no, you go by that silly nickname now, do you not? Black Vi-, nah, Black Adder, was it?” The man chuckled.

The Dark Lord’s incredulity at the conversation only grew as both Potter and Regulus tilted their heads slightly to one side in curiosity at the exact same time, the latter jerking in shock when the mirroring actions registered.

“Missed me this much, did you boy? You know, you could have just given me a call and I would have gladly let you bounce on my lap again, I remember how much you begged for it, after all,” his smirk was wide and salacious, even as he gained no reply form the boy still cradling the green flame.

The reactions of the Dark Wizards and Witch were instantaneous, shocked outrage and promises of violence clear in all their features and exclamations. They might be observing the supposed enemy of the Dark Lord, a child destined to die, but the abuse of a wizarding child, by a filthy Muggle no less, garnered a strong reaction. Sirius shouted out in fury, hand tightly gripping his wand as he took in the bound form of his would-be-target.

“I swore I’d find you, Christopher Kahler. And I swore I’d make you pay for what you did,” Potter’s voice was positively glacial, and Kahler’s smirk soured slowly as his hastily assembled confidence began breaking down under the frosty stare of his captor.

Putting up a last effort, the man sneered disturbingly and spat out, “Let me out of these blasted handcuffs right this instant, boy, and I might be gracious enough to let you get out of this with only a rough spanking and a hard fuck. Trust me, brat, you don’t want me as an enemy.”

“I’m quite content keeping you right where you are, Mr Kahler,” Potter replied tartly, “And I can promise you that you will not be leaving this room for a very, very long time, nor that you’ll be leaving it with your life.”

Kahler’s face contorted into an ugly grimace, but right before he had the chance to spout off something new, Potter’s hands spread out simultaneously as a ring of slowly simmering green flames surrounded the pair, the boy deftly catching his cane in his right hand, spinning it around as if what was happening caused him nothing but boredom. Then, when Kahler was recovering from the terrified jolt brought on by the new development, Potter lowered the cane and stared intently at the bound man. The reaction was instantaneous, the man started screaming and writhing madly in his chair, neck snapping in all directions and hands and feet straining in their metal cuffs until they were slick with blood, spit and rapidly forming sweat flying in all directions.

It only lasted about two minutes, and at the end Potter had to take a few deep gulps of air to recover, running a hand across his slightly damp forehead and unintentionally drawing attention to the jagged lines of the famous lightning bolt scar resting above his right eye.

“It can’t be,” Lucius proclaimed weakly as both the man and the boy regained their posture, Potter having a far better time with it than the still spasming man. The circle of green fire still dancing around them without a sound.

“Oh, isn’t this just absolutely delightful? So much fun, my Lord!” Bellatrix cackled, anticipation and bloodlust clear in her gaze.

“Yes, it does seem like we were in for an unexpected surprise,” their Lord mused as he continued to watch the boy, who had now gathered his resolve and fixed his mask back in place.

As Kahler still struggled to calm his breathing pattern and twitching limbs, Potter made his way outside the flaming circle, steps echoing off the indistinct walls. He stopped at what looked vaguely like a table before turning back around and extending his arm to widen the circle so that he was more visible. The table housed several objects laid out neatly, some in boxes or rolled in cloth.

When Kahler finally stopped wheezing and turned panicked, raging eyes on the boy, Potter held up a rectangular plastic bag with a small cork, filled with an unidentifiable liquid. The unexpected item caused Kahler to pause again, uncertainty clear in his haggard face.

“I promise you Mr Kahler, that yours will be the most _agonising_ , most drawn-out death that I have ever delivered,” Potter’s voice was slow and secure, and his expression did not betray any doubts or hesitation.

“Wh-what, what are you –”

“I promise I will spend my sweet, sweet time making sure you will suffer every single day of your miserable little life. To the point whereyou will be begging me for death,” Bellatrix’s cackle bounced off the walls, lending the scene an appropriate, if not a little macabre, backdrop, and the Dark Lord and his followers could do nothing more than to watch on, completely riveted.

“This,” he gestured towards the bag, “is an IV bag, filled with water, vitamin supplements, and a small dose of antibiotics, meant to keep you alive for as long as I desire,” the look of fear on Kahler’s face deepened to absolute, unrestrained terror as he finally realised the severity of the situation he had found himself in.

“I will change it once in a while to make sure you’ll always be supplied, of course, but they should last for about a week depending on how much is in them,” Potter continued dispassionately, turning away to start fiddling with something else on the table.

“In the meantime, I will also, of course, make sure that your stay here is less than comfortable, but don’t worry, we’ll start with something small. How about removing all your fingernails? And then we can proceed to toenails some other time, hm?”

Potter turned to the bound man with a pair of small tongs in his hand, experimentally opening and closing them with a look of exaggerated fascination and contemplation. Kahler blabbered out something pathetic, by this point crying loudly and miserably without making any sense. His hands and feet were now spasming on their own accord, and the white in Kahler’s eyes had doubled, all signs of a cornered prey, terrified out of their mind to the point where even their instincts worked with no other purpose than to sharpen their suffering. Then, the sharp stench of urine filled the room as the man lost control of his bladder, soiling his lap and running down his legs in warm trails.

Potter made a tsking sound, shaking his head disappointingly, “You’re right, of course. That won’t set the tone for your stay here properly, will it?”

The boy hummed contemplatively as he turned back around, ignoring the hitched breaths and pleas of his victim. Then, Potter straightened decisively and leisurely walked back towards the stinking man, showing off the object in his right hand, his left now in possession of the crow cane.

“You know what _will_ set the tone, tough? What you definitely deserve before we start playing properly?”

Potter triumphantly held out the chosen object as if displaying it proudly before the blubbering man; a pair of sharp, butcher-like scissors, likely made of copper.

“As you mentioned, I happen to have rather strong memories of our last encounter,” the boy began, sneering in disgust, “I, however, must unfortunately admit that I do not hold them nearly as dear as you seem to have done.”

“Alas, I feel as if I owe you something for everything you taught me, everything you did.”

Potter stretched out the hand holding the scissors, and from the back of the room a small, metal table scraped across the stone floor as it skidded over to the bound man, ending up right under Potter’s hand. The man blubbered some more, head swivelling frantically on his neck like he was trying to get himself as far away from the demon child in front of him as possible. On top of the metal table sat several empty plastic containers, and as Potter placed his cane on the ground, to lean on the table, and stepped properly in front of Kahler, his intention became apparent for his audience.

“Castration,” Lucius enunciated clearly, as if sampling the word and wondering what exactly to do with it.

Bella, who had left her spot among the wizards to inspect the table of torture devices turned towards the boy again and positively _skipped_ closer.

“Serves the bastard right!”

Regulus looked towards his enraged brother, noticing how his hand was wrapped almost painfully around his wand, before glancing at his Lord taking note of the hints of anticipation mixed with his mask of blank indifference.

The actual act was done quickly and, if the wizards had any say in it, rather clinically, with the offending appendage resting in one of the plastic containers set at the ready. The man screamed throughout it all, tears, spit and snot running down his face, and his pleas had turned into unintelligible gibberish.

When it was over, Potter clapped his hands once decisively, before laying down the bloodstained scissors. The boy’s own expression had not faltered once during the act, staying fixed at curious indifference, sometimes bordering on amusement or contemplation, and his eyes stayed hard and cold. Then, he roughly gripped Kahler’s sticky jaw in his left hand, forcing the man to look him in the eyes as the boy leant over him slightly.

“I promised you I’d find you. I promised you I’d hurt you. And I promised you that by the time I’d be done with you, you’d be begging for death like the pathetic little vermin you are.”

His thumb traced the man’s jaw almost tenderly, before he dug his nails into the man’s flesh, making him open his mouth in a silent moan of pain.

“And if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s keeping my promises.”

Then, with lightning speed, the blunt head of a silver crow-skull struck the man’s temple so hard the resulting crack almost echoed in the now dead-silent room. Blood spurted lazily from the wound, the man’s head dropping instantly forward as he lost consciousness. Potter spun his cane lazily with a flick of his wrist, stepping back and letting it fly through the air in a circle before effortlessly catching it in his other hand .

Potter stayed like that for about a minute, looking at the unconscious man bound before him with dark satisfaction, cane swinging back and forth like a pendulum and the ring of flames still lighting up the basement. Then, he rolled back his shoulders, pursed his lips, and turned around.

His audience followed him as the flames were extinguished and the boy made his way through the dark and up the stairs again. The coat had vanished from its chair and the silver crow-head was no longer painted red. Potter made his way through the house once more, ascending the stairs until he was on the third landing, where the French girl from earlier was waiting by the railing.

“Comment c'était?” (“ _How was it?_ ”)

“Il a été pris en charge.” (“ _He has been taken care of._ ”)

Then, Potter stepped on the landing and towards the door at the end of the hall. The girl left down stairs again, and Potter stepped inside the room, which turned out to be a combination of a study and a bedroom. A bed had been shoved into a corner of the room, a small table and dressed pressed close to it, as the rest of the room was made up of a large desk and table in the middle of the room at the other side, with notice boards and screens placed around them in a half circle, only interrupted by the window overlooking the streets below.

On the desk, table, and boards, a number of papers and books lay spread in an organised mess, catching the magical audience’s attention. It looked almost like one of the Dark Lord’s strategy rooms when they were in the middle of a mission or report, text, pictures and notes spread out with arrows, lines, and different coloured pens used to clarify its content.

The Dark Lord felt a tug behind his naval, like a miniscule apparition, and realised they did not have much time left until their had to return to the manor. He looked towards his followers to gauge their reactions before drinking in a last sight of the strange, intriguing boy now perusing a stack of papers at his desk, thinking that he might have to alter his plans after all.

Then, in a flurry of robes and a gust of wind, the group found themselves standing around the strategy table back in the Gaunt Manor again, slightly winded and with much to think about. Before any of his followers could say anything, however, the Dark Lord dismissed them coldly, without taking his eyes of the now unmoving dot of blood on the enchanted map.

As Voldemort continued to eye the drop of blood he though to himself that perhaps he could kill to birds with one spell, so to say. Eradicate Harry Potter whilst securing the loyalty Adrien Black, who’s skills and mindset would surely benefit the Dark Lord’s forces.

 


End file.
